


Even Through the Noise

by acetheticallyy (jacquesdernier)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquesdernier/pseuds/acetheticallyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve, you think. His name is Steve. You watch him fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Through the Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Right so a few things before we kick this:
> 
> 1\. I am aware that I should probably be working on my other, much fluffier projects, but this idea wouldn't leave so I had to for the sake of my own sanity.
> 
> 2\. Please do not let the second person POV deter you!! It sounds much better this way, I promise. Third person was used in the beginning and it did not read well.
> 
> 3\. The title of this fic is borrowed from the Colton Dixon song "Noise"
> 
> 4\. Enjoy!
> 
> [newly edited as of May 29, 2015]

You see him first on the bridge. He's nothing special, you think. Just another mission. But then things turn. You fight. Your masks falls. It's not something you're particularly concerned with, but he seems to be. He calls you Bucky and you don't understand why. _Who the hell is Bucky?_ Something in the man's face makes you want to give up; makes you want to turn around and tell Them that you won't finish it. But you can't. This is what you were made for.

The mission fails. You know They won't be happy but you don't care about that. You know that man on the bridge. Something in the cadence of his voice keeps eating at you and you wonder why you care so much. _That man on the bridge. I knew him._

You bring it up to Them. You know you shouldn't. You know it's a bad idea. Something keeps screaming at you to shut up, to run as far as you can and never look back. But you don't. You can't. You tell Them everything. You tell Them about the man on the bridge and They tell you that it's nothing, you met him on an earlier mission. But They're wrong. You _knew_ him. From a long time ago, maybe. A time when people wore raggedy clothes because they couldn't afford new ones. A time when the man wore a different body. A smaller body.

You try to protest, to argue your point, and They set you back in the chair. You're not sure what comes next but you feel cold, like whatever happens next is going to be bad. There's a frustrating feeling in swimming in your head and for some reason you're tempted to bolt. You've never had that feeling before.

A voice inside of you keeps repeating the same thing over and over: _save him, get him out of here, you have to protect Steve, go, you bastard, GO._ And who is Steve?

You don't move. You _can't_ move, you know They won't let you. If you tried, you know you could get past Them. None of Them could take you, not alone and not together either. But you don't test it. Things are better this way, They've told you. It's for your own good. You know of no other way to live; you believe Them.

They strap you in. _But I knew him._ They don't care. They never care. They never will. You don't matter. You are just a weapon and weapons don't argue. Weapons don't have feelings and weapons don't fight back. Weapons are pointed and set off.

So you stay still. You let Them do what They must. The machine comes on. You scream and your vision fades.

You see the man again and this time all you know about him is what They've told you. He's your mission, plain and simple. You were made to kill him.

But something happens, when you arrive. You see the suit and it's not the one in the file. It has red and white stripes and you feel like you've seen it before. _You're keeping the outfit, right?_

No. The voice sounds like yours, but fuzzier. Lighter, more...happy. You've never been happy. You're not allowed to be.

You ignore the voice in your head; ignore the nagging feeling in your brain that says you shouldn't be fighting this man. You shoot first, three times, all aiming at the same spot. But your aim changes at the last second each time. It's a slight twitch of your wrist and instead of hitting him square between the eyes like you're sure the bullets should have, they instead wind up in his gut. You don't miss. Ever. Something's wrong. You're better than this, you know it. So why aren't you doing your job?

The weapon ends up discarded. You go after him yourself. You don't need any weapons--you are the weapon.

The man fights back. Reluctantly, you realize. He gets the chip in the system. He turns around. You expect a real fight now that he's got what he wanted. That's not what you get.

Before you can start the fight yourself, the aircraft shifts. Parts of it blow apart, sending you flying backwards. You try to get up. A piece of the infrastructure falls, holding you back. You push at the metal, trying to free yourself. You cannot fail the mission again. They won't let you.

The man comes toward you, helps to lift the metal bar. You roll away and immediately your fist goes towards his face. He doesn't fight back. _You're my friend,_ he screams, but he's not, he can't be, you don't have friends, _weapons don't have friends._ The voice in your head is screaming at you to give up, to just _let him go, dammit, stop hurting him, it's your job to keep him safe._

Your eyes are burning and you don't know why. You can feel wetness on your cheeks. _Then finish it,_ he tells you, dropping the shield. _'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line._ Something in those words makes the neurons fire in your brain and you freeze, arm poised in the air. You see the man, only two feet shorter and one hundred pounds lighter. It's raining. _I can take care of myself._

_You don't have to. 'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line, pal._

Steve, you think. His name is Steve. You try to pick him up, but it's too late. You watch him fall. You move.

You pull him out of the Potomac and lie his shield beside him on the stretch of sand along the water. You can't stay, not yet. There's more you need to know, more you have to find out for yourself. You make sure he's breathing and you leave.

The museum exhibit calls you Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. It says you were his best friend. He is Steven Grant Rogers, and the way you keep thinking of him as small wasn't wrong. _I thought you were smaller._

You can't stay any longer without drawing attention to yourself, so you leave. You find a place to stay, a place where you know They'll never find you. They don't. But he does. So you keep moving. You can't see him yet, you're not ready, you'll hurt him. You can't let yourself hurt him again. He's too important.

He and his friend keep following you and you keep moving. Eventually they stop. His friend convinces him to go home, and you're glad. He needs the rest. You've seen him out there, always one step behind you, exhausted and undernourished. You want to be mad at his friend, the man with the wings, but you can't find it in yourself to do that. Someone should take care of him when you can't.

Months later, you're standing on his doorstep, hair tied back and arm covered, clad in new clothes, courtesy of the woman with the red hair. You had stopped at the tower first, thinking he would be there, with friends. The man in the iron suit wanted to contain you, but the redheaded woman stopped him, told him it was okay. She gave you clothes and told you where he is now, said that he wanted to be somewhere you'd recognize.

So there you are, in Brooklyn-- _home,_ you think--in the hallway of an old apartment building that you just barley remember, hand poised to knock. Before you can, the door opens. He didn't know you were there, he couldn't have. The redheaded woman promised. When he sees you, he goes still. And then you feel yourself being pressed into warmth and you can finally relax.

You return the embrace with one arm, your real arm, still weary of the metal one. He pulls back and gives you a small smile, blue eyes shining with happiness and relief. His eyes are still ringed with purple, you notice, but the force of his smile almost makes you forget.

Steve, you think. You follow him inside.


End file.
